


Dead Money

by Angelas



Category: Naruto
Genre: 204 years after the nuclear bombs fell, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Based on the bleak setting of Fallout: New Vegas, Blood and Violence, Dystopia, Guns, Horror Elements, Language, M/M, Slow Burn, Survival, dark themes, sasuke being sasuke, tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 20:52:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12872769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelas/pseuds/Angelas
Summary: At the end of the world, Sasuke struggles to survive the Mojave after having been separated from his brother.A chance meeting, and he comes across someone who seems to thrive in the final vestiges of human civilization.





	Dead Money

**Author's Note:**

> I am so stoked for this, couldn't even tell you. Started writing about a month ago, and now I'm so determined.  
> All beta credit goes to my [beloved](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian) who is the wisest and whose input I treasured throughout♡  
> Here goes.

**oOo**

It’s silent, flat waste for miles.

Sand skids from the floor, gyred by wind, the breeze that it brings a lot hotter than the scorch all around him. The sun sears his skin, soaking sweat through the rags that preserve him. His lips peel in spite of the neck scarf he uses to cover his mouth and his chin. He’s hungry. Thirsty, as well. One bullet left inside of his rifle. He swallows stale spit, and realizes he cannot recall the last time he’d tasted a wad of cooked meat, a precious gulp of clean water.

Hours pass in search of some shelter, for some shambling hope of a merchant or drifter who would not be opposed to strike up a trade. Or for an old shack that he could jimmy the lock of, some den he could hole in, a temporary respite from the scalding sun at his neck.

He finds neither. And after a mile of dragging his feet through the Mojave wasteland, Sasuke thinks he must be hallucinating when he thinks he has spotted the faraway outline of a broken-down gasbar. He squints through the heat and shields his brow with his palm. Big red letters encrusted in sand. _Red Rocket Gas Stop_.

An untellable swell of relief emboldens his limbs to move faster. He stumbles, totters and trips, but does not relent till at last he is a reed from the structure. He crawls behind a cave-in of rubble, unstraps his rifle, and veers the scope into focus. He surveys the area, the windows primarily. His wrists shake. He steadies his breath, tuning his eye to detect any shadows or movement.

All’s clear.

He exhales, tongues his parched lips, and stands to search for a quiet way in.

**oOo**

The door is unlocked, shot free by previous looters.

Sasuke toes it aside, gunstock pressed on his shoulder. It’s wretched inside, flecks of debris wafting like blowflies. He levels both elbows, finger taut on the trigger, and squanders no time in pointing the barrel in all four directions. His heart drums. The door shuts behind him. He skulks farther in, checking the shadowy rear of each shelf. His weight chirrs the floorboards, his pupils blown wide with each creak.

A snap of the wood. To his left. He spins on his heel.

Nothing.

He relaxes by the time he reexamines the premise. He slings back his rifle, unzips his pack, and quickly begins to lay waste to the room. He finds mostly rubbish. Old money. Dust, effluvium, empty boxes of grain. Though the occasional snow globe and bobbins of tape amass to fatten his pack by the second. He scours the drawers for food, then drops to his knees to palm underneath each of the bread racks. The cabinets, too.

Nothing.

The empty can next to the cash register hurts him the most. He hovers above it. Devoured just hours ago. He stares without blinking. The flies environ the rim, smidgens of bean staining the sides of the tin. He takes a step closer. He wants to lick the slick that is left, wants to dip in his finger and scrape till its glowing again. He doesn’t.

He tears himself from the can, busying himself with the manager’s office. His efforts unearth him exactly five rounds of ammo, all for a .22. He bags them. Then stands. That’s when he notices. To his right and forgotten next to an overturned mirror, a mangled steel locker sealed with an oxidized padlock.

He goes to it, sits on his haunches, and slithers a pair of bobby pins from under his sleeve. He needles the lock, listening to the slackening springs till the metal shackle clicks free. He flings it aside, high hopes ingrained in all of his being.

It’s worth it.

Two cans of Cram, a stimpak, and a bottle of datura ointment. He bags it all, a torrent of hunger letting loose in his mouth. He sets down his pack, then slams one of the cans on the desk. He levers his switch knife, prepping the blade.

Suddenly, noise.

Footsteps just outside the front door.

Dread, like a fist in his throat, and for the flash of a moment, Sasuke thinks to somehow lug his pack along with him, to take at least the one can and shove it into his shirt. More noise. No time. The front door blasts open, and the only thing Sasuke can think of is to press his back as firmly as possible next to the wall, his shoulder an inch from the office’s entrance. He clutches his rifle, biting his tongue, ready to hoist up and shoot in succession.

He hears them walk in, whoever they are. A kick here and there, empty bottles falling and rolling. No caution, just racket. A peppy whistle starts up. A raider. A slaver. Or someone remarkably stupid.

Still, Sasuke struggles to muffle his breathing. His fingers tighten on the bolt of his rifle, a runnel of sweat wetting his jaw. Footsteps. Near and then nearer. Beside him. Broad shadow. A man. He enters the office, does not bother to gander behind him, there where Sasuke is glued like a stamp to the wall.

Time stretches. The man is tall, cocksure but likely alone. The skin is suspiciously clean. The figure is secured in sturdy black leathers. It contours the limbs, fending off fire ant stings, the occasional animal bite, but never a bullet. No brand on the flesh that would mark him a raider. And a slaver always travels in groups. Sasuke would peg him a merc, a wandering exile from one of the towns, were it not for the towheaded hair, the absence of dirt under his nails.

The man edges to the left of the room. Strong legs, military boots. No gun slung at his back, no holster guarding his hip. Melee, then. Fists.

Eventually, the man catches sight of Sasuke’s rucksack. The whistling stops. He unzips it, dumping everything Sasuke had amassed all over the desk. The snow globes smash to the floor, the bobbins and medicine are immediately stolen. Sasuke stares, unable to exhale. The man’s knuckles are layered in tape, smeared with brown blood, some of it fresh. They look heavy. One strike to the gut and whoever falls to the floor will certainly be beaten to death.

Sasuke swallows, hoping past truth that the cans may somehow elude being taken. Had he one bullet more, he would shoot now and think nothing of it. Were he bigger, he would slink forth and angle the switch knife to puncture the tailbone, paralyzing the legs, taking the boots, stripping the armor—

The man finds the cans.

He bags the first. Then goes for the second.

Quick, the fang of starvation bores in. It’s primal. Cruel and vicious and it maneuvers his body, blackening all sanity, and Sasuke is unable to stop it. He hoists up his rifle, stepping away from the wall.

“Hold it,” he hisses.

The man turns around. Young. Square-jawed. Blue eyes, blue enough to glim on their own in the dark. It is Sasuke’s first time, seeing pale eyes in all the Mojave. He tries to ignore it.

“Hands up.”

The man complies. No further movement. Sasuke adjudges he’s right, that the man is unarmed, relying on fists. Sasuke treads forward. The gun rattles like glass in his palms. He narrows his brow. The rindle of light from the ceiling discloses his face. The man studies this, down, up, and then down again.

“Easy,” he says. “I’m just—”

“Shut up.” Sasuke dips the gun by an inch. “That. It’s mine. Leave it now or I’ll shoot.”

He cocks the trigger to show he’s not joking. The man does not flinch, but rather smirks at him slightly. Sasuke feels his wrists start to go stiff.

“You’ve got till five,” he snaps.

Slow, the man steps to the side, as if to demonstrate every object he’ll begin to unbag from the pack. The bobbins are piled back down on the desk, along with the stimpak and the five shells of .22. Two things to go. Sasuke’s stomach gnarls the moment the first can of Cram is placed down. The man pauses there. Sasuke risks another step towards him.

“ _Both_.”

The man looks at him, lifting one golden brow.

“You sure about that?”

Sasuke grapples the gun, raw panic stretching his throat. “I’ll blow your fucking head off,” he barks, “I won’t say it twice—”

The man reaches into the pack one final time, though it’s not the can he pulls out. But the cold glinting barrel of a .44. He taps off the safety, steadying the Auto Mag's sight, all with the use of one arm. Sasuke freezes. One of those bullets lodged into any part of his body and the result would be either death or debasement. The man looks at him, eye-to-eye, calm, as if he were kindly waiting for resignation, for fear.

“You a synth?”

The question hangs in the air. Sasuke blinks, willing the terror away from his eyes.

“What?”

The man takes a step towards him. “Means you probably are.”

“Stay back.” It’s nervous. “Any closer and I swear I’ll—”

“You’ve got Vault written all over you.”

“Wha—”

“You know. Like you don’t know what you’re doin. Like you were born in one of those pre-war holes in the ground. Ever seen one?” The man presses forward. Sasuke staggers back. “Ten caps says that last bullet you’re saving is meant for yourself.” The man tilts his chin to the side. “Maybe revenge for your boyfriend?”

“Fuck you,” hisses Sasuke. He wants to say more, wants his voice to stop shaking, wants to tear out those eyes, those bright yellow strands that have surely met water—

Nothing.

“So. You gonna put down the gun?”

A couple steps more, and the wall will undoubtedly cage him. Sasuke roots down, squeezing the trigger as hard as he can without shooting.

“Give it to me, asshole. What you took. I won’t say again—”

The man grabs straight for the barrel.

Lightning-quick, and with a strength in his arm that instantly surmounts both of Sasuke’s as he struggles to keep control of the gun. Sasuke’s vision distorts. Tears or dread or all of the fury his prostrated body could possibly muster in the indispensable burst of that moment—

He pulls the trigger. The rifle’s bullet expends. He misses. The bullet snaps through the wall. A single fibril of sunlight beams from the hole.

The man slams him back. The impact disarms him, knocking the air from his lungs. But even the pain that shreds through his skull fails to stop Sasuke from immediately uprearing his switch knife. He hurls forth—a snarl made known from his mouth like an animal—blade aimed directly to hook between the man’s lower ribs.

Sasuke’s wrist is caught. That same unassailable fist. The man twists, calmly hoisting his magnum before beginning to force Sasuke back with one forearm. Sasuke kicks, landing a few solid blows to the man’s shins, his knees, two that fall an inch from his bollocks.

Sasuke’s back hits the wall, the man like a fortress against him. Mindless with fear, Sasuke spits in his face, square in the eye, and tries to lash out one final time with his opposite hand. It doesn’t land. He’s kneed in the gut. He flags. The knife clacks to the floor. It’s kicked out the room. Hands clasp him up by the collar.

“Let me go,” he musters. He swallows, flinching at the defeated scritch of his voice. Nothing but those vivid eyes right in front of him—pelagic, unreadable. “I’ll kill you…” he rasps. “I’ll kill—”

The fists in his collar tighten. It hurts. Knuckles grate into his airway, muzzling his breathing. His vision crosses. His hands reach, tapping weakly on the fists infixed in his neck. Colors drain, blotches in all corners of his conscience. His eyes water. Hot moisture pools beneath his chin. If he’d been smarter, _stronger_ like his brother—

The ache besets. One last jerk in all his limbs, then slowly into nothing.

Suddenly, the man unhands him.

Sasuke crumbles to the floor, gagging for air, choking and clawing for it. He tries to stand, but the pain is like all bones being broken. He stumbles, then lands face-first onto the ground. He thinks he can see the man’s boots thumping closer. He reaches with his hand, to stop them, to hold them.

Finally, blackness.

**oOo**

He wakes.

He’s moving, but not on his own. He blinks. Blur after blur, but the purple-black sundown of the Mojave desert is unmistakable. He feels numb, can only barely perceive that his arms and upper torso are dangling, bolstered by something. He looks to the floor. Footprints dipped inside the cracked earth. He’s on someone’s shoulder, tossed back like a rag.

Sasuke’s immediate spur is to kick, to punch, to shout, but all three efforts result in only a series of pules. He looks to the opposite shoulder. His rifle, its sleek metal frame rattling quietly with each steady step.

“You’re awake,” is the voice. The same from before, the stranger who’d stolen from him. “It’s a start. Thought you’d died back there.”

Sasuke clenches his teeth, but even this makes his whole body sting all over again.

“Brought back your gun,” says the man. “Not that you’re not heavy enough already.”

“Shut up…” It’s more a whisper. “Just let me go…”

The man doesn’t answer. The barren waste fills the silence, an air sick with danger. It’s cold, the scorching heat outplaced by a treacherous chill. Sasuke’s eyes start to flitter, the gnaw of starvation beginning to twist into every starved muscle.

He’s almost fainted by the time he notices something moving out in the distance. Reeling at first, tripping in on itself, a black shape coming closer. Sasuke fights to keep his eyes open. He blinks. The shape is now upright, much like a person, grasping and teetering forward. Long arms, naked, thin as a corpse. It’s sprinting towards them, a pungent smell akin to a walking disease overspreading the air.

“Hey,” rasps Sasuke.

It’s urgent, but laughably slurred. The man ignores him. Sasuke’s heart starts to hammer, the initials of panic, weak fists thudding against the strong back against him.

“It’s...there, there’s something there, it’s running—”

The man stops. He turns to look. His body tenses, and Sasuke knows he’s seen it, too.

“Stay here,” he says. It’s calm, free of worry. He puts Sasuke down, then strides quickly in the creature’s direction.

As soon as he’s able, Sasuke tries to move, tries to crawl forward so that he may at least deflect the creature’s attention. The man closes in with it, just a few yards away. Sasuke’s face stiffens, eye dilating in a dissension of shock. This close, there is no doubt in his mind that this creature has long ago rotted, that its face is holed and contorted enough that the skull barely seems human. The eyes bulge from the head, damp with some indication of life, but the skin is parched, partially peeling down to the squirming tangle of muscles decaying beneath.

It shrieks. A vicious, fell sound teemed of some bottomless hatred, and for one stark, petrifying moment, Sasuke is certain that the man will buckle in the face of sheer fear, that he’ll freeze and be slit to pieces, that they’ll _both_ be—

The man’s fist connects with the creature’s rank skull.

It cracks with a dull snap, caving in from cheek to mid-forehead. The left eye bursts. Muck mixed with blood, and as fluorescent as a candle fly’s thorax. It sizzles. The man shifts, away from the liquid.

Still, the creature does not die. It stumbles, nonplussed, croaking desperately as it reaches, some shapeless grief in its discordant wailing. The man unholsters the Auto Mag. Four steps back. He points it, then shoots without blinking. The blast shatters the creature, knocking its heft to the floor. The clap of the gun echoes the desert. The creature lies in the sand, bleeding in gelatinized green.

Sasuke swallows a trembling breath, his fingers grappled deep in the earth. He turns to the man, frigid, heart caged in between his chest and his throat. The man looks at him, too, his wheat hair almost white in the twilight.

He grins. Some bright, stupid grin, as if the world hadn’t ended already.

The adrenaline fades.

Blackness.

**oOo**

Noises. Like the gentle nips of a fire, the hallowed scent of cooked food.

Sasuke’s eyelids flicker open. He’s sat against a wall, facing the orange fulgor of a campfire in the middle of a room. A thin metal skewer is set between the flames, two separate dollops of meat roasting in what looks like a handmade rotisserie. His vision starts to clear. He sits up, still in pain, turning to look in all corners of the room.

It’s more a shack, this place he’s in, though several piles of invaluable supplies embellish it. Chems, bottles of purified water, ammo, _food_. He spots his rifle. His pack, too, both of which are neatly leant aside a bolted wooden door. For a moment, Sasuke thinks he’s hallucinating, has died, is drugged. He blinks. The man there, sitting cross-legged on the opposite side of the flames, watching him quietly.

“What…” His tongue is dry, his lips too sticky. “Where...why?”

A bottle of water is tossed at him. Sasuke catches it, clutches it. He looks at the man.

“Have it,” he says. “Unless—”

But Sasuke’s already quaffing it. He suckles it empty, tongues the wet rim of the plastic. He rests his head back, relishing the lasting refreshment left behind in his throat. The man’s attention veers back to the kebobs in the fire. Sasuke unhands the bottle. Embarrassed, he stares at the floor.

Silence.

“Why didn’t…” he stops himself. “You didn’t kill me.”

The man looks at him. Smiles, “Nope.”

“I would have shot you,” reasons Sasuke, more a whisper to himself. He shifts where he sits. He’s sure he could stand if he tried, is sure he could make off with at least one box of ammo, the stimpak, _the cans_. His thoughts reel, conviction alight in every space of his mind. “I need to leave,” he starts, “I have to go back—”

He attempts to get up. He can’t. His legs are two-ton, his body useless from lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of water, the blaring protests of his hungered stomach—

“You could,” says the man. “But you’ll definitely die. There’s a pack of’em heading towards Goodsprings. If you’re as smart as I thought you’d be, you’ll wait till the townsfolk take care of it.” He chuckles, adding, “Then again, I _am_ talking to someone who looked like they’d never seen a feral ghoul in their life.”

“Fuck you,” hisses Sasuke. He tries desperately to stand. “You don’t know anything about me, you fucking _robbed_ me—”

The man gets to his feet, one easy movement. He strides over. His shadow casts across the room. He looks taller than before, broader shoulders than before, eyes bluer.

He squats, a mere foot from Sasuke. The leather seams of his armor chirr, like a secret between them. Sasuke can’t move, can’t blink. His clean skin. The naked knuckles of his hands, his long fingers, all of which are speckled lightly with old and recent scars.

“You didn’t run,” he says. “You could’ve. But didn’t. Could’ve just begged, rolled over.” He pauses. “You know, I knew you were in there. I saw you go in. I also know you’re good with that rifle, that you can charm a stuck lock, could take a fight the same way you took that bottle of water.” He looks to the floor, as if thinking. “Can I ask you something?”

Sasuke nods once, attempting to ignore the kindling heat in his gut.

“What’s your name?” the man asks.

Sasuke swallows.

“Sasuke,” he says.

He wants to return the question. Wants to know why all of the hate he’d amassed for this person— _has amassed for this person_ —begins to abate very softly. Sasuke’s fingers stir on the floorboards.

“I’m Naruto,” the man says. “I need to get to New Vegas.”

Sasuke tilts his chin, staring as though the guy'd grown a third head.

“New...Vegas?”

Naruto’s brow knits.

“The city of lights,” he says, waits, “ _The_ Strip.” His eyes gleam, as if he’d just uttered prophecy. “There’s everything there. All you can think of, a piece of how it used to be. Before the bombs, before the war. Casinos, walls, _electricity._ ”

Sasuke doesn’t need to speculate to know that he’s just been offered enlistment. He shakes his head, fumbling to scoot as close as possible to the wall, away from him.

“I need to go back,” he says. “I’m looking for someone, I _need_ to find them—”

“You’ll find them,” Naruto says. He sits, closing the distance Sasuke’d just divvied between them. “We’d cross out of California, straight through I-15, all sorts of towns on the way. Forts, too. I’d have your back, you’d have mine. Chances are—”

“You don’t even know me,” snaps Sasuke. “If I could stand….if I could _move_ , you’d be out of my face.” He flinches, the ache in his ribs reemerging. “Give me my stuff, _all_ of it, I need to—”

Naruto reaches, cupping Sasuke’s mouth shut. Sasuke swallows his breathing.

He listens, eyes darting slowly toward the leftmost wall.

His heart revs.

Footsteps. More than one person, still faint from a distance.

With his free hand, Naruto douses the fire.

**oOo**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Synth: A synthetic humanoid made to look, function, and behave like humans.  
> Vault: An underground installation designed for the sole purpose of sheltering up to one thousand individuals in the event of a nuclear holocaust; however, in reality, all were part of a series of secret experiments orchestrated by the United States government.
> 
> drop me a line. it's the wick to the soul♡


End file.
